


and the Witch will come for you

by unklarity



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, F/F, Implied Character Death, heavily canon divergent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unklarity/pseuds/unklarity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s as though she’s a legend no one believes in any longer.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Morrigan is tired. She feels the breath exit her body and prays that maybe, she won’t inhale again, that her lungs will collapse just like her heart. She just wants to go to sleep, and let the tiny soul inside of her take care of itself.

Sleep is not in the cards for her today. No, today she’s on watch, sitting on the ledge of rock close to the edge of the castle grounds, half-closed eyes trained on the woods in front of her. It’s been hours; perhaps even days. Maybe it’s been an eternity, since anything moved in the sea of green, nothing but her own breath making a noise. She swallows thickly to stifle a wave of nausea before it turns into an avalanche, placing a hand to her breast and narrowing her eyes, as if daring her body to betray her. It’s only been a few weeks, and she can already feel a change. Too soon.

Morrigan hears it before it comes into view: the sound of two horses and their riders, trotting toward the edge of the forest, their pace increasing as they approach the gates. She calls to them from her perch, voice threatening despite the tremor only she can hear, “What brings two agents of the Chantry to a desolate wasteland such as this? You jest if you think you have any authority here.”

One of them takes off their helmet, red hair spilling out to frame a fair face. “We are here on the authority of the Divine.” There is a fire in her eyes, one self-righteous Chantry preachers so often have; Morrigan smiles a delicate, predatory smile, a tiny voice perking up inside her head. She’s put out that fire before, and she knows she’ll enjoy putting it out this time around just as much as she always has.

"That name means very little in these wilds , little girl," she drawls, venom lacing her words like a poisoned gumdrop. "But what exciting venture brings you here from your cloisters? Are you hunters? Or merely scavengers, looking around for something long gone? Whatever it is, I beg you turn ‘round and search somewhere else."

"We’re looking for the hero of Ferelden."

Morrigan chuckles, slowly rising from her perch. “As I said. Long gone.”

The redhead’s companion removes their helmet, body language clearly aggressive, but not making to move forward. “Well then, we must speak to someone who can tell us what happened.” It is a woman with dark, cropped hair, nearly yelling in comparison as she makes her silly demands. The mage raises an eyebrow, smile only growing. “Come a bit closer then, you should know it’s bad manners to shout. My godlessness certainly isn’t catching.” Morrigan removes the hand from her stomach, straightening her back. The horses carry the riders closer, her blood thrumming with each thump of their hoofs on the ground. The taller woman dismounts, walking towards her. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice still guarded, but much lower in volume. “My name is Cassandra Pentaghast. We’ve traveled all the way from Orlais to try and find out what happened after the Blight. We were hoping to find an explanation here.”

"Ah, a proper introduction? No more throwing names about to see who is more important? You, I like." Morrigan lifts her hand with a flourish, pushing the castle gate open with just a hint of magic. If anyone asks, someone was waiting for her signal to raise the door. Besides, no one ever dares ask. She crooks a finger, beckoning her guests to follow her, slamming down the lever to close the gate only moments after both horses’ tails have grazed the threshold. She giggles darkly, a ludicrous sound bubbling out of her, and takes another step into the courtyard. It seems as though her watch is over for today; besides, she has things that require attending to. Glancing back as the two women leave their horses with the guards, Morrigan gives the main door a soft tap, and a few seconds later it opens for the three of them.

"Welcome to the Keep."

-

The smell of incense assaults her nose, and Morrigan takes a deep breath, closing her eyes as she continues to lead Cassandra and her companion forward. As she approaches the main hall, she stops; Bethany sits on the floor, humming softly, the huge mutt’s head in her lap as he snores away. “Hello, Morrigan,” she says softly, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “I see you’ve made some friends.” Her voice is giggly and light, and she turns one of the pages of the book at her feet with a wave of her hand. She’s been practicing, the witch notices, and she lets a small grin escape despite herself.

“They’re here about your cousin, girl.” At that, Bethany freezes, her body tensing and her eyes going dark. She gently lifts the dog from her knee and stands, hand reaching for Morrigan’s, which she grips tightly. “I don’t know what you expect to find here,” she whispers, looking from one woman to the other, “but we’ll help you the best we can. My name is Bethany Hawke. What are your names?” Oh yes, Bethany, she thinks. We’ll help them the best we can. Rolling her eyes, she disentangles her fingers from Bethany’s, moving toward the door. “Continue your introductions if you must. I trust you can take them where they need to go. I will be upstairs.” She hears Bethany bid her farewell but does not look back, turning and heading up the stairs before any other voices fill her ears. She’ll deal with them later.

When she reaches her room, Morrigan lets herself relax, exhaling with a deep sigh. She sits on the edge of the bed, thumbing through the pages of her mother’s old Grimoire, for once very unsure of what will happen next. Kicking off her boots, she lays down, pulling the blankets over herself, counting days and hours and minutes until the world is back on its axis again.

She dreams of fire. Fire yellower than her eyes, hotter than the sun, scorching everything in its path. She cannot distinguish the real world and the fade, and all she can see around her is blood, bodies falling to the ground, screams of horror on their faces. She dreams of death and chaos and the world torn asunder, and when she wakes, she is clutching her heart and the Warden’s name is on her lips. After all she’s done, still, Morrigan is all alone, with a dragon eating away at her heart.

It was foolish to think that everything would end when the Blight ended; it was foolish to think there would be an ending at all, but she’d let the Warden fill her head with stupid ideas. They’d all be alright. They’d kill the dragon. Morrigan would be safe. Even she knew it’d been a lie; she’d planned all along to leave and never look back, to carry this burden on her own. Now, she’s found herself without a choice in the matter. And to think, a woman so strong, killed so easily after coming through hell unscathed. She can’t understand. And now, these Chantry imbeciles are here, looking for a Hero who they’ll never find, to fight a war they’ll never win. Even Morrigan knows it’s hopeless, despite her mother’s plans to the contrary, despite the ritual, despite all of their sacrifices. Despite the horrible things she’s done in her false quest to be a savior.

A knock at the door invades her thoughts, and she blinks, sitting up and wiping the sweat from her forehead. “Yes?” she inquires, loud enough to be heard on the other side, and walks toward the door on shaky feet. When she opens it, Bethany is on the other side, expression unreadable. “They’re staying,” she mumbles, looking back to the hallway, making sure no one is listening. “I think Marian wants them to look after you.”

“They assume I need looking after?”

“Well, you’re the only one left.”

Morrigan nods. “I suppose I am.” Yes, she was the only one to survive from their original gaggle of misfits. The assassin, dead. The would-be king, dead. Their fearless leader, dead - and yet somehow, the feeble witch had survived, woken up miles from the battle screaming but still intact, unlike her comrades scattered on the fort’s roof, lifeless and bleeding. She still sees it when she closes her eyes. When she turns to Bethany, she doesn’t dare look her in the eye, lest the girl see any echo of tears there; instead, she shrugs noncommittally, letting out a huff. “Well, if they’re to look after me, I can certainly make their job a torturous one, can’t I? Be a darling and tell your sister I’ll be down in a moment. There’s…something I ought to do first.” Bethany nods, giving her a compassionate smile and skipping off in the direction of the stairwell. The mutt wanders by after her, stopping to look at Morrigan with a perplexed stare. “What do you want, you mongrel? Here to drop dead rabbits in my drawers again?” He whines, covering his face with a paw, before running off after Bethany, tail between his legs. 

Looking out into the hallway momentarily, she watches a few of the staff go by, and then closes her door, taking a seat in the worn chair beside her wardrobe. She touches the wood, recalling the last conversation she’d had here, the fight that had ensued, the words that had torn everything apart worse than any darkspawn could have done.

_“It doesn’t have to be this way, Warden.”_

_“Yes, Morrigan, it does. Besides, how do you know this ritual will even work?”_

_“So you’re willing to throw your life away on that chance?”_

_“You’re asking me to trust you, and I do. But I don’t trust blood magic. I can’t.”_

_Morrigan sighs. “Alright then Warden, you’ve made your decision. You will not see any more of me.”_

_“Morrigan, wait! You’re not even going to stay and fight?”_

_A trembling hand reaches up, crading her cheek. “No, I will not. After all of this time, I would still stand by you…and yet now, you push me away. My mother sent me with you to save your life in the end, Warden. If you deny me now, then so I will deny you.” She closes her eyes, letting her hand fall. “No matter how much it may pain me.”_

_“Morrigan-”_

_The witch never hears the final words intended for her. In her mind, the last thing out of the Warden’s mouth is her name._

A sob escapes her before she realizes she is crying, and she lays a hand on her stomach, forcing herself to inhale. The Blight may be over, but there is a war coming, and it’s not going to wait at their doorstep for her to finish mourning. In fact, it’s not going to wait for anyone. If Morrigan is doomed to have two Chantry bodyguards, then she’s at least got to make sure they won’t get her killed. She unclasps her necklace, letting it drop to the table, and strips out of her robes, donning a long black dress that cinches below her breasts. It’s much less revealing, not that there is much to reveal as of yet - but she may as well make a habit out of it. Taking one last deep breath, she steels herself, glancing at her staff before deciding to leave it be, and slams the door shut behind her.

There is a small balcony above the throne room, which has been converted by the Hawkes into something of a barracks. A large table sits in the center, maps and plans strewn out about its surface, and at the very far end stands an ornate throne, worse for wear, but still somehow elegant. Morrigan stands at the balcony, watching from above as Marian lazes about, body thrown across the enormous structure like a gigantic cat. Predatory. Gluttonous. Regal. The redheaded woman talks to her animatedly, and she gazes skyward from boredom, catching Morrigan’s eye. “It’s not that I don’t agree, Leliana,” she drawls, a yawn fighting its way from her mouth. “It’s just that I think it’s a horrible plan.” Marian’s blunt frankness has always garnered Morrigan’s respect, if not her admiration, and she takes great enjoyment from it now, laughing to herself as the girl flushes scarlet. “If you think the Maker will guide us, then I don’t see why my idea is any worse than yours.”

Cassandra clears her throat, garnering the witch’s attention. “If it’s as you say, she won’t even allow us to come near her. And yet, you’re insistent that she still has a role to play.” As much as Morrigan despises being discussed when she’s not around, she isn’t ready to reveal herself just yet. Content to remain in the shadows, she listens, a small smile at the corner of her lips, eyes darting back and forth between Marian, now looking at their guests upside down, leaning over the arm of the chair, and Cassandra, who seems to be growing ever more exasperated. “Why do I have the feeling you’re hiding something important from me?” The Chantry buffoon in her rears its ugly head, and she slams her fist on the table; the ear-splitting sound of wood cracking echoes in the sparsely furnished hall. 

Marian smiles. “You expect me to trust you. You expect her to trust you.” She pauses for a moment, looking upward, and Morrigan nods, transforming seamlessly into a raven and gliding down to the lower level, quietly perching in a dark corner of the room. “Then you’re going to have to trust me. To trust her. We’re on the same side here. The side trying to stay alive.” Morrigan falls back into her human form, cracking her neck as her bones realign themselves, feeling her muscles burn after weeks of neglect. She laughs, watching as every head in the room turns toward the noise, toward her. “Marian, I believe you’re right. Two times today; this must certainly be a feat for you.” The elder Hawke beams, hopping back to her seat, and raises the glass set on the table beside her.

“And here’s the lovely lady now.”

“Surely you jest,” Morrigan warns, wagging a finger in consternation. “So I suppose our guests can be on their way, then? Now that they’ve gotten the information they came for.” She waits, knowing full well that the opposite is true, but deciding to play dumb; after all, she doesn’t want to show all the cards up her sleeve. “What a shame it will be to see them go.” Marian snorts, dropping the empty chalice, letting it clatter to the floor; the sound makes Morrigan’s head ache, and she shoots a glare in Marian’s direction. “No, Morrigan, they’ll be staying. Well, specifically, Cassandra will be staying here, and Leliana will be going scouting with us.”

“So am I a child, now? Do I require constant supervision so as not to drown myself in the tub?” Cassandra tries to speak, but Morrigan holds up a hand. “Do what you will,” she begins, picking up her dress with a flourish and walking toward the other woman. “But the dead cannot help you win a war against the living, and neither can a witch.” She lays a hand against Cassandra’s arm, pressing into the leather with her nails. “I am more interested in survival than victory.” She lets go, delighting at the crescent marks she’s made in the armor. This woman is interesting; there is a silent strength hidden within her. Morrigan suddenly finds herself wanting to bring it out, to use it. Standing on her toes to reach Cassandra’s neck, she sighs, whispering in her ear. “If you insist on shadowing me, remember this: faith has very little meaning in this place. Faith can always be poisoned by doubt, or extinguished by death. Power…power has meaning. It is far more infallible than you or I, and power will always win.” 

“Your definition of power must be different than mine.”

Morrigan laughs. “It must be, my dear. Now, why don’t you show me what my protector can do?” She looks toward one of the guards, beckoning him forward. “If you don’t mind.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's as though she's a legend no one believes in any longer.

Blackwell falls to one knee, sword thudding dully to the ground, the noise swallowed by the collection of bearskin rugs. "I yield," he breathes, bowing his head to Cassandra, and she sheaths her weapon, helping him to his feet. When both competitors have left the makeshift battlefield, the redhead, Leliana, turns to Morrigan, pride blooming on her face, even lovelier than a flower. "You see?" Her accent is much thicker now that she's been speaking, and it's evident she hails from Orlais. "Cassandra is the Right Hand of the Divine. The Hero of Orlais. You can certainly rest easily knowing she's here to protect you."

Morrigan rolls her eyes, clasping a hand dramatically over her chest. "Oh, if only I'd known, I would have never resisted," she intones dryly, speaking to Leliana although her eyes are narrowed, watching Cassandra's movements. Calculating. The woman carries a burden on her shoulders, walks under the terrible weight of it; it's something Morrigan recognizes all too well. It's not that she wants to see her protector unravel, not that she wants her to break. The world is full of too many broken people. But perhaps there is a small chance this woman can be trusted - not only with her life, but the life of her child as well. "You fought well," she confesses, fingers curling around the fabric of her dress as she gives Cassandra an appraising look. "But you'll have to do better than that to impress me." It’s a lie, Morrigan knows, but she will never admit it to anyone, least of all Cassandra. She tilts her head, expression softening, watching as a light blush colors Cassandra’s face. Perfect.

Bethany decides to interrupt, to help or to hinder her Morrigan isn’t quite sure, taking Cassandra and Leliana by the arm and offering to give them a tour of the keep. “Morrigan is only joking,” she hears the girl say, “now would you like to see our training room?” Rolling her eyes, Morrigan waits until all of the guards pour out of the room and only her and Marian are left before she sits down, legs crossed, hand running over a dagger embedded into the table’s surface. “So what exactly are you planning? You know how dangerous it is for them to be here, Marian. They’re going to see things.”

The elder Hawke gives her a carefree grin, sitting next to Morrigan and propping her feet up on the table. “Morrigan, the best thing that can happen here is that they help us. The worst thing that can happen is they fuck things up, and in that case, we kill them. You worry too much.” No, Morrigan thinks, she worries just enough - in fact, she doesn’t worry enough. She’s never been concerned with darkspawn or demons or hellfire until in intruded upon her life so violently. Now, rotting in the wilds with her unbearable mother seems like a fond memory, albeit one she’d have to be desperate to return to. She is far from desperate. “You seem so confident when the world is in ruins, my dear. But so be it. As long as you watch over your sister, I will take care of myself.”

“The point is for her to take care of you.”

“Do not insult me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Just let her take care of things for you. And in the meantime, watch her.” Oh, she definitely will.

“Tread carefully, Marian Hawke. A living legend can be killed just as easily as they are created.” She speaks from experience, most assuredly - experience she does not want to share - and although she knows the other woman will not heed her advice, she feels it necessary to warn her, lest dying unnecessarily be a family trait.

“So you tell me. I’ll try.” Morrigan stands, turning from Marian and wandering out into the hall, knowing they will not speak again today. Perhaps it’s time for a bit of fun. After all, being trapped in a castle all day isn’t good for her health; it's probably best she get some fresh air. She walks down the dark hallway, fingertips grazing the tapestries that cover the stone walls, feeling the dust atop them, how it weighs them down do heavily. A sigh escapes her, feeling so very much like this abandoned keep, full of old baubles and soldiers but nothing like what it used to be. Nothing like it should. 

“I’m sure you do, Cassandra. I just wanted you to know. Be careful.”

Morrigan stops in her tracks in front of one of the weapons rooms; a dim light seeps out from underneath the door, Bethany’s voice voice along with it, only barely audible. “I can see how you look at her. Morrigan is beautiful, yes, but she is dangerous as well. Many people have fallen for her and never been the same for it.”

“I appreciate your concern, but it’s not necessary, Serah Hawke. I am here to protect her and that is all.” She hears shuffling from behind the door; someone clears their throat. A thud. “I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt. Not you, and certainly not Morrigan. Be careful with her.” 

“I don’t think she’d like you speaking of her like some delicate flower.”

Bethany scoffs. “I never said she was one.” Morrigan hears a hand on the doorknob and moves into the shadows, taking the form of a small cat. Bethany opens the door, leading Cassandra out, a stern look on her face. “But even she deserves to be taken care of sometimes.” Cassandra gives the girl a perplexed look, bidding her farewell as they part ways down opposite ends of the hall. Bethany heads towards the stairs, and Morrigan considers following her. Ultimately, she decides against it, opting instead to leave the castle, unwilling to deal with the possible consequences of an argument. Bethany knows more than she should, but the witch can at least be grateful she doesn’t seem willing to share more than the occasional veiled hint. Still, she’ll have to have a chat with the girl. _Many people have fallen for her and never been the same for it._

Oh, most definitely.

-

When Morrigan walks outside, heading toward her usual perch, she finds it occupied, Cassandra sitting cross-legged on the large rock with her eyes closed. It seems like fate is working in her favor for the moment, so she decides to sit down beside the other woman. "I thought you'd been granted a tour of the keep," she begins, fanning out her dress over the stone, "or have they put you to work already?" Cassandra laughs, a deep melodic sound that makes Morrigan's insides itch. "Your keep has more secrets than it has open doors." The Seeker opens her eyes, smile falling from her face. "The people in it seem to be the same way." Morrigan won't argue with her; it's certainly not a lie. For every open room in the castle, there are two that are locked, at the very least. It doesn't bother her, grown up in a world of secrets and hushed whispers of magic. "And yet despite all of our secrets, none of us know any more than you. Tell me, Seeker: why do you believe I require protection?"

"I'm not quite sure if it's because you're a threat or because everyone else here is." Oh, if only she knew how much of a threat Morrigan could be - she'd be much easier to manipulate. As it stood, the witch was on the edge, still deciding whether to trust her or not, and trying to assess the damage that could come from it. "I can assure you, my dear," she meets Cassandra's eyes, the ghost of a grin on her lips obliterated by a sudden sharp pain, "I am more of a threat than you realize and less of a threat than you fear. Especially now." Morrigan does not miss the concern on the woman’s face - does not miss the inquisitive glance. She tries to gather her resolve, playing with one of the rings on her fingers. A silver and ruby band. One of the rings she’d-

"What was the Warden to you?" What a sudden, unfortunate question. She's tempted not to answer, to walk away, but she resists. "She was...a friend once.” After a long pause, she adds, “A sister, even. I will not call what happened between us betrayal, although I ought to." Morrigan takes a deep breath, steadying herself. She doesn't want to think of the Warden any longer. Tearing her eyes away, she blinks to drive away the tears threatening to form. "Why are you so interested in a dead woman? You waste your time investigating the Blight while a very present threat hangs over your head. What are you really doing here?"

Cassandra makes a sharp, barely audible noise, pulling off her gloves and setting them on the ground beside their shared seat. "You do not trust me." Morrigan wants to laugh in her face, congratulate her for stating the obvious, but she refrains, instead giving her companion a small smile. "Of course I do not. However, do not be fooled into thinking you are the cause. I...do not trust easily. Marian enjoys blaming my upbringing.”

“Your upbringing?”

Morrigan narrows her eyes. “It is…irrelevant. But never mind that. I will try to trust you, but remember that I have very little evidence to compel me-" She watches Cassandra's face, traveling down from her eyes, to her lips, to the symbol of Andraste fastened about her neck. This woman has experienced pain, just as she has; has experienced heartbreak and loss and world-shattering disaster. How can she still possess so much faith, believe in those silly Chantry stories when there is no evidence to support them? Even more so, she’s clearly dedicated her life to them; to a creator that’s supposedly abandoned humanity on a whim. Morrigan doesn’t understand, finds it difficult to wrap her head around such dedication, although she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit Cassandra was worthy of her respect. “As of yet.” 

“As of yet.” Cassandra echoes her words. Morrigan hums, not sure what to say next. “Tell me,” she turns her head toward the Seeker once more, “why are you really here? Do you really think piecing together a legend will help you?”

Cassandra’s entire body tenses, her fingers digging into their makeshift chair. “It’s just as I said before. The Divine sent us to investigate the Warden’s disappearance.” Morrigan laughs, biting her lip. She’s not going to get very much out of this one, that’s for sure. She’d rather not, but she thinks perhaps she should change tactics. Letting out a sigh, she weaves her fingers together, still watching Cassandra’s mouth move. She reaches out, brushing the short hair out of the other woman’s face and leaning close. Too close. Much too close. “I know what you told Marian, and I know ‘tis not the whole truth. Nevermind your silly little friend. Why are you here, Cassandra Pentaghast?” She whispers in the other woman’s ear, and Cassandra springs into movement, catching the hand moving to cup her face. The witch freezes, eyes trained on the fingers digging into her wrist, fighting to keep fire from engulfing the both of them. She wins.

“Please,” Cassandra whispers quietly, and Morrigan retreats a few inches, giving her space. The hand around her wrist slowly loosens its grip, but does not let go. Honestly, she hadn’t expected that to backfire so spectacularly. She’d expected Cassandra would blush, get flustered, perhaps try to kiss her, and then she’d be able to find out whatever she wanted, perfectly content to string her little soldier along just as she’d done with dozens of them before. Always a necessary evil she couldn’t quite stomach, despite her mother’s insistence that it was the expectation of her sex. Disgusting. Consequently, she’d become an expert at the art of stringing men along, making them fall to the floor, crawl after her, begging. It was never quite romantic as much as it was appalling, but it did yield results.

Usually.

_“I found a way to save your precious Warden, boy.”_

There were times when it didn’t work, despite her insistence.

_“So she’s...alright with this?”_

There were times when she got in over her head.

_“It’s the only way to save you both.”_

Like now.

“Are you alright?” The hand on her wrist resumes it’s squeezing, albeit much more lightly, and Cassandra’s heavily accented voice shocks her out of her memory. “I’m sorry if I scared you, it’s just that-” Morrigan places a hand lightly over hers, shaking her head. “It was nothing you did, just...an unhappy coincidence.” She disentangles their arms, placing one over her stomach and using the other to push herself off the stone, standing at her full height and looking down at Cassandra. “If you do not mind, I’m feeling a bit lightheaded. I believe I should rest for a moment.” With a flourish of her dress, she turns around, heading back toward the castle. “Although, before I leave...” she begins, only a few feet away from the other woman, facing away from her, not willing to make eye contact. “You never quite answered my question. If I were you, I would concoct a more adequate lie before we meet again.”

With that, she opens the gate, crossing the courtyard and walks leisurely into the Keep, ignoring the guards opening doors as she passes. She smiles to herself, looking down at the red marks decorating her wrists. She needs time to think, time to alter her plans; she’s not quite sure why exactly Cassandra is here, but her instincts are, surprisingly, not telling her to run just yet. It’s difficult, yes, staying in place with more than just her own life hanging in the balance, but she does have a responsibility; she won’t crumble under the pressure and she definitely won’t follow her mother’s silly prophecies. _Oh, Morrigan, you’ll be back in due time. Someone like you is never satisfied with the power they have. You’ll get what you want and you’ll always want more._ Morrigan had heard it directly from Flemeth’s mouth, and much later after the Warden had killed her, it echoed in the dark halls of the Keep. Behind the hangings, in the ice at the windowsills. You’ll be back, it said, always followed by her mother’s laughter, floating in the air whenever she’d found a moment’s peace. 

In the relative safety of her room, she sits at the edge of her bed, trying to calm her racing heart. Something in the pit of her stomach is telling her to give in, to trust this woman, even though she has no reason to. Morrigan has always trusted her instincts, however outlandish, until now. Feeling a wave of fatigue wash over her, she lays down, exhaling as her cheek touches the pillow. She curls up in a ball, imagining she’s back in her tent at camp, the fire at her back, hearing the Warden’s voice carry across to her. It wasn’t supposed to end this way, she thinks - but it has, and it’s time to move on. Not to forget, no. To pick up the pieces she has left and build something new with them. 

That sounds acceptable, Morrigan thinks as she closes her eyes for a moment, trying to tune out the beating of her own heart, pretend she can hear the tiny one right underneath it. She’s succeeded in gathering her thoughts when a small knock sounds at the back of her head, and she turns toward the door hazily. Despite herself, she stands, more slowly than normal, and opens it, blinking at Cassandra, who seems determined to avoid her gaze. “Hawke told me where to find you,” she mumbles, and Morrigan watches her swallow nervously. “I...believe there is something we need to discuss.”

Morrigan opens the door further, ushering the woman in and closing it behind them. “How fortuitous,” she smiles, taking a seat one of the couches and motioning to Cassandra to do the same. “I believe I have something to tell you as well.”


End file.
